


Someday

by BobaMcFetty



Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Beetlebabes Week 2020, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobaMcFetty/pseuds/BobaMcFetty
Summary: It would be so easy to take advantage of her, but all he can bring himself to do is crawl in with her and dream about the future.written for Babes Week 2020.  Prompt: Dream
Relationships: Beetlejuice & Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice/Lydia Deetz
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	Someday

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just need a hot obsessive ghost man to cuddle you without your consent.  
> I would love love love to hear your thoughts. I love reader engagement!  
> Enjoy!

She’s right there, vulnerable, ready for the taking. He can do anything he wants with her, and his list of ideas has only grown longer as he’s followed her around the house over the past two weeks. After the Maitlands forgot to send him back (as he said, good and stupid), he went to work planning how to rid the house of the Deetzes. Betelgeuse is a working man, so even if the squares snubbed him, he still has a job to do. Besides, he’s mostly in it for his own sadistic reasons.   
Charles would be an easy scare, no question. The guy is constantly on the verge of a panic attack.  
The redhead would prove a little more difficult. She isn’t the usual hysteric housewife he’s used to.  
There’s only one problem. The girl. Little Lydia Deetz, who holds a grim demeaner but is full of sass. She’s ultimately unpredictable. On one hand, she isn’t frightened by the dead, and overall holds a morbid curiosity for the strange and unusual, and doesn’t shy away from anything gross. She isn’t afraid of anything tangible. But on the other hand, she’s just a mortal girl, and it wouldn’t take much to have her cowering before him.  
That image always gets him hot and bothered. When it comes down to it, he’s saving her for last.  
He adores her, even if he hates that word. What started as a study of her family quickly turned into her. All about her. He followed her around the house like a lost, dead puppy. He watched her sort photographs into albums while bobbing her head to her Walkman, and when she was gone he flipped through her records and cassettes, committing her music tastes to memory. He read her diary just to admire her girlish handwriting. Some of the things he read made him seethe, and when he joined her unsuspecting family for dinner, that seething turned into rage.  
Lydia is ignored. Pushed off. Treated like a nuisance. Neglected.  
No one in this house cares about her. Not like he does.  
So as much as he can’t wait until he fills her with fear, Betel also dreams of when they can talk for hours. When she let it slip that her movie tastes lean towards the macabre, he instantly imagined how she would look curled up on the other end of the couch while they watched Night of the Living Dead. Carrie. Jiffy Pop spilled across the carpet going just as ignored as his 168th viewing of The Exorcist. He could spend eternity with her, and while he’s at it, earn that golden ticket to freedom. All he would have to do is convince her to marry him. He’s not one to commit, however.  
A pathetic noise pulls him from his thoughts.  
Illness is an old friend of his. Though she doesn’t have the plague, Betelgeuse knew she was getting sick before she did. It started with a headache, and two days later she’s unable to get out of bed.   
“I think I’m getting sick,” she said one day over breakfast.  
Delia didn’t even look up. “Well don’t breathe on me.”  
Her father waved her off too, despite her worsening condition. Later that night, when they popped open a bottle of wine, they found it full of roaches. Just because he’s laying low doesn’t mean he can’t have some fun.  
Lydia has the flu. She has the cutest little cough, but that doesn’t distract him from how she shakes under her covers. The constant trembling bothers him the most. The shaking and sniffling and quiet whimpers from how badly her muscles ache. She can’t even leave her bed, meanwhile her parents are off on a date night, too obsessed with themselves to check on her before they left.  
She’s wrapped in three thick blankets and flannel pajamas, but that doesn’t stop the chills. What the hell is he supposed to do? He can’t drive her to the doctor. But he’s worried about her. He shouldn’t be, but he is, and the way her fever has been steadily climbing for days now with no treatment, up to the point where it’s dangerous, he can’t help but stand next to her bed and worry. The thermometer on the nightstand reads 102.6. She’s in the danger zone if it reaches 103, and being home alone with no one to help, this is bound to end badly.  
She’s burning up, and his body is cold. Maybe if he just-  
Fuck laying low, she’s too delirious to remember this anyways. Betelgeuse toes off his boots and throws his coat atop her pile of blankets. The moment of truth, he slowly slips in beside her, careful not to jostle her too much.  
Lydia rolls over, large eyes cracking open. When she sees who’s in her bed, she wants to jump. She wants to claw her way to the other side and scream, but the fever leaves her lifeless, and when he pulls her into his arms, she can only let out a confused noise.  
“Wha-“  
“Shh, you’re dreamin’,” he says, “Just go back to sleep.”  
Oh, that makes sense. After all, it isn’t called a fever dream for nothing. Despite the splash of doubt in her mind, she melts into his strong arms.  
Now he has to be dreaming, because her face is pressed against his cool neck and when he smooths her hair back and keeps his hand against her cheek, her petite hand wrapped around his wrist.   
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” she mumbles, lips moving against his jugular in a way that almost makes him squirm. “I’m so lonely.”  
He doesn’t blame her. Alone in a new town with shitbag parents. Betel thinks back to her diary, entries upon entries talking about her loneliness, being misunderstood, often times crossing over into borderline suicidal ideation.   
He could stay here forever, wrapped up in her. The smell of her sheets, her soft mattress, how hot she feels pressed against him. By morning she’ll be more awake and aware, and he’ll be gone, back to the shadows until the day comes when she’s scared from the house and he’ll never see her again. Betel doesn’t want that. Lydia’s not leaving, but he can think of four others who will be. They’ll get married, he’ll be free, and the house will be theirs if she wants to stay. If not, he’ll take her anywhere.  
Married. Married married married married married.   
“I know, Babes,” he snakes a hand under her shirt, resting it against her scorching back. “I’m gonna get you outta here and take good care of ya.”  
She buries herself closer against him.  
“I’m gonna make you real happy, Lyds.”


End file.
